


long way on a fools errand

by spaghettirobot



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Character Study, Doomed Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 06:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16948416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaghettirobot/pseuds/spaghettirobot
Summary: Arthur's been wrestling the giant for as long as he can remember, it's finally time to let go.





	long way on a fools errand

Arthur closes his eyes, letting the crackle of the campfire become a constant - his senses dull in so much as a man on his own can lower his defenses. Every small step in the brush a possible ending, by man or by beast.

There’s times in his life where that prospect would have kept him up clear through the night. None too aware of his own mortality, living to preserve a life he thought worth living. It’s peculiar the life of an outlaw, the sense that you can’t possibly live more free and the reality that freedom ain’t more than smoke and mirrors. The kind of cheap illusion folks might pay a quarter to see but nothing to hold on to.

Course, having nothing to hold on to leads a person to think you can’t be held on to neither.

Mary’d known well enough and had the good sense to get away from him for good. No matter how hard he’d tried to hold on to her, she was forever out of his reach. Maybe that bastard daddy of hers was right all along. She was right to have the good sense to move on to a decent man with a decent life. Even if that didn’t work out like she wanted.

Well, that seems to be how it goes.

A deep, painful wheeze drums up in his chest and Arthur is spent in advance. The fits, coming faster and faster with every passing day, staining his sleeves red with blood - his, lucky he's grown accustomed to that sight over years of violence.

At least Mary didn’t have to watch him die. She might think him a brute without hope for changing but at least she thinks him strong. Stronger than she can hope to live with peaceably. Not this - weak and wasting away. There’s a metallic taste from the corner of his lip that he takes care of with the cleaner of the two sleeves. Not so far as it matters, they’ll surely need changing soon.

The doctor in Saint Denis had looked at Arthur like he was already halfway in the grave. The women, Mary Beth and Tilly especially, look at him with pity in their eyes even as he tells anyone who will listen that there’s no cause for concern. He spends as many nights as he can muster away from Beaver Hollow just to avoid the knowing looks.

For all Dutch’s talk of Tahiti and getting away to a better life, Arthur always knew he’d come to some sort of violent end. But he ain’t sure TB is a better fate than a bullet or the hangman. You find yourself slowly choking to death, speeding up the process don’t seem like a bad idea.

But not yet.

Abigail. Jack. Mary Beth and Tilly. Hell, even Karen if she could get off the bottle long enough to stay quiet. He can’t go before he gets them out. Miss Grimshaw’d probably be loyal to Dutch to the day she dies judging by the way she shot Molly. But he had to try ‘cause if he could - well - maybe his life had been worth something after all.

*

He finally does take himself back to Beaver Hollow only for Mrs. Adler to pull him aside. She asks him to take out the last of the O’Driscoll with her. He don’t think it’s smart but he knows he is going to say yes, even while he’s trying to reason her out of it.

With all the time he wasted on Dutch’s blood feuds, all the time he spent killing folk who ain’t need killing over the last six months he has a thirst to spill blood for good.

It occurs to Arthur this might be one of his last chances to do so.

*

The O’Driscoll gang ain’t more than a shadow now that Colm’s hanged but there’s still enough blood. Still the right combination of folk to satisfy Mrs. Adler’s rage.

Arthur won’t ever erase the vision of her stabbing that fat man with the beard. The wild look in her eyes as she avenged her husband, the life she’d ought to lived. The weight off her shoulders in that moment, Arthur won’t ever feel nothing like that seeing as he’s lived the kind of life where killing him would give others that feeling.

There ain’t no easy rest for a man like him.

This surely wasn’t what the Sister envisioned for him in redemption by helping others but he’s never seen Mrs. Adler like this and that has to count for something.

Something.

*

Davey was supposed to be the last one. That’s what Dutch’d said to him back at Colter. Course Dutch had said a lot of things to a lot of people since then and Arthur supposes it don’t mean much to Sean or Hosea, Lenny or Molly, or hell, even Kieren.

Can’t mean much to the dead.

And every time they rode for vengeance, more need for it seemed to pop up.

Well, that seems to be how it goes.

“Arthur,” Sadie’s voice cut through the haze of his mind. “Seems like this is as good a place as any to make camp.”

“Alright,” They was right on the cusp of Roanoke Ridge, still on the Cumberland Forest side of things. He’d been ambushed by the Murfree Gang making camp too close to Beaver Hollow, not an experience he would like to repeat.

Especially not with Mrs. Adler in tow. No doubt she is more than able to take care of herself - she’s proved that over and over - but that don’t mean she should have to.

They hitch the horses to a couple of trees, Arthur feeds them both an oatcake and couple sugar cubes. He gives the horses a pat on the side and makes off to set up the tent. Mrs. Adler’s already started on a fire and she’s got the grill set up for them to cook dinner.

Arthur goes through the motion of setting up the tent knowing full well he will be sleeping by the fire and giving Mrs. Adler the shelter for the night. She will fight him, no doubt, but he won’t have it any other way.

The routine of it all passes the time and soon he’s got thyme coating the venison they’d shot that morning. The sizzle of the meat on the grill the only sound between the two of them. Mrs. Adler’s quieter than usual and that suits Arthur just fine. He’s got too much to say to say much of anything at all.

He’s left his hat back on the horse and his hair falls too long into his eyes. Ever since he collapsed in Saint Denis, since the doctor gave him his death sentence, he’s let everything go. His hair, once cropped neatly above his ears hangs limp near his shoulders. His beard’s filled out to the point where not even the kindest person could call it handsome. The kind of beard that would’ve melted right off of him in Rhodes, hot as it were.

A few more pokes at the venison and Arthur declares it done, takes out his knife and spears his portion. Mrs. Adler does the same. It’s decent enough, bit tough maybe but nothing to complain about.

Arthur gets a few bites in before he feels the cough coming on. It’s all he can do to play off the first sputters as choking on the meat. But he can tell from the look Mrs. Adler gives him that he’s not fooling her.

“Here,” Mrs. Adler sifts through her satchel and pulls out a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon. “‘Spose you can’t get better, you might as well get drunk.”

“Mrs. Adler, I can’t take your whiskey,”

She pushes the bottle into his hand. “You will.”

Arthur doesn’t make it his business to get on her bad side and on top of that it’s just what he needs. Might smart his pride but he pulls the cork with his teeth and takes a big swig. He feels like choking for a second from the burn but it smooths out into warmth that spreads through his body. Warmth it seems like he can’t generate on his own any longer.

He takes a bite, then a swig, alternating until the venison is gone and the whiskey ain’t too far off.

“Thank you,” He says after too long.

“Glad you finally let someone help you,” The added rasp of her thick Tumbleweed accent lets Arthur know she’s mostly teasing him.

The silence hangs between them as the moon hangs higher in the sky. Mrs. Adler takes out her gun and starts cleaning them one by one. Arthur should do the same but he can’t bring himself to stop watching her. Whenever she seems aware of it, he buries himself back into the bottle.

It ain’t inappropriate thoughts he’s having, not really. Since Mary twisted that final knife he’s not sure he could ever feel like that about someone again. Not even if he had the time left to do so.

Still, there’s something about Mrs. Adler. From the cowering woman Micah pulled from hiding in an O’Driscoll ravaged homestead to the spitfire that almost shot half a dozen Lemoyne Raiders on a simple supply run to, well, the women who kept the dream alive long after it died in a bank in Saint Denis - buried somewhere in the bloody sands of Guarma.

That kind of strength of will, Arthur supposes, makes for a special kind of woman. Maybe, he thinks, maybe if they’d met when they was young and untouched by the pain of this world. But he don’t get a maybe in this life.

Just a couple decades taking the long way on a fool’s errand.

“How old you think Eagle Flies was?” Arthur asks out of nothing.

“Hell if I know,” Mrs. Adler’s eyes never leave her gun as she cleans.

“The way Dutch riled him up,” Arthur pauses to stare into his whiskey. “I can’t help but thinking maybe I was Eagle Flies age when Dutch and Hosea took me up.” Maybe he’s got a point, maybe he’s just drunk and dying

“It’s nothing,” He mutters and drinks instead.

This is why he writes and don’t talk so much as he can help it. When he writes he’s got time to gather the things floating around his head. With speaking he’s got to have it all figured out right away. And he don’t. Not with this. This half thought he’s trying to turn into something that makes sense outside his head.

“Hey Arthur,” Mrs. Adler sets her gun aside, resting her arms on her legs. She fixes him with a look that sticks him in place. “You remember what you said to me that night at the homestead? When you was putting me up on Dutch’s horse.”

“No,” Arthur shakes his head.

“You boys came in after Micah found me, I was scared thinking you was just like the O’Driscoll’s. The way he handled me, there wasn’t any hope. I fought and screamed and then Dutch puts a blanket ‘round my shoulders.” Mrs. Adler looks like she’s staring straight through him to a memory. “You led me out into the snow, helped me up on Dutch’s horse and you said ’we’re bad men but we ain’t them’.”

She shakes her head at his continued silence. “You know what makes you a good man, Arthur?”

He tilts his eyes toward the fire, away from her stare. “I ain’t a--“

“Oh would you hush,” Mrs. Adler shuts him right up. “You wouldn’t be acting like you are if you wasn’t a good man. You think we all don’t know you’re dying? You can dodge all the questions you want, you’re wasting away. Any blind man could see it and wouldn’t you know I’m far from blind.”

Arthur looks back at Mrs. Adler. “The things I’ve done, if you knew the half of them.”

Mrs. Adler smacks a hand down on her thigh. “I could see every single act in one of them shows they play in the theaters down in Saint Denis and I would still know you’re a good man. Wanna know why?”

“And how are you so sure?” Arthur lets the frustration flood his voice.

“‘Cause you care if you is, that’s why.” Mrs. Adler picks her gun back up and goes back to cleaning. “Bad men don’t much care if they’re bad men, Arthur.”

Her return to gun cleaning quickly banishes him to his own thoughts. He looks back at Mrs. Adler and there’s something about the way the moonlight hits here that has her looking like that picture he picked up all those months ago in her homestead. Maybe killing the rest of them O’Driscoll boys took her back some.

Arthur takes out his journal and starts sketching. First the rough outlines of her form, sneaky soft in all the places the world made her hard. Yet theres’s also the line of her pants and the square of her shoulders made that way by years of hard work - and the past six months of running hard. He sketches her hair, swept away in the ever-present braid and wishes he had some color to add. He takes time to draw her rifle, framed by her long, sturdy fingers. In another life she could’ve been a piano player or one of them high society wives like Charlotte.

He laughs to himself and risks a better look at his subject, no, she could have never been one of them silver spoon types. Not without incident anyway.

The light gets higher in the sky and Mrs. Adler’s long moved to the tent - knowing him well enough he guesses to avoid the argument.

Arthur puts the finishing touches on his sketch and tucks the journal back into his satchel. He lays down by the fire and shuts his eyes, he lets Mrs. Adler’s words wash over him and take him to sleep.

*

Beaver Hollow seems more like a ghost town than any camp should and looking into his shaving mirror all he sees is a ghost. Seems he’s right where he should be then.

It’s all coming to a head, he can feel it. He’s not a religious man and there’s no time for that now but it’s a feeling. Deep in his wasting bones he knows. And he wants to look like himself when it’s time.

Much as he can anyway.

Only it seems the single thing his hands hold still for anymore is riding and shooting. Every time he lifts a straight blade to shave his hand shakes like a stray in the cold rain. Seeing as he don’t want to die by his own blade he needs assistance. But Annesburg ain’t even proper enough to have a barber and riding back to New Hanover to get a proper cut and shave seems a step too far.

“Mrs. Adler,” He steps over to her sleeping quarters, now abandoned seeing as Karen’s wandered off and Mary Beth is gone to who knows where, somewhere safe he hopes. The camp is empty save the two of them, everyone else either abandoned or scavenging or planning.

“I told you to call me Sadie more times as I can count,” She crosses her arms over her chest and fixes him with a look.

“Sure,” Arthur never stammered, wasn’t a stuttering man but the very idea of his ask gives him pause. “I was wondering, well, if you could do me a favor. A small dignity.”

“What’s it you need?” Sadie, he supposes if she’ll give him this final respect than he can work on giving hers.

“Do you know how to shave and cut hair?” Arthur forces himself not to speed up his speech like he’s some sort of green boy, like John Marston - the damn fool.

Sadie gets this far off look in her eyes and, of course, Arthur is the fool. Of course she knows, she was a married woman living out in the middle of the Grizzlies. Can’t imagine they rode into town for every bit of grooming need, can he.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think,” Arthur reaches out before thinking better of it, his hand hanging in the air between them.

“No,” Sadie shakes off the ghost of a memory and pushes past his outstretched hand to his sleeping area. “I’ll do it. C’mon before they get back and see me helping you.”

Arthur kicks himself for being so stupid but walks behind her. She directs him to sit on the bed as she rifles sure as anything through his grooming equipment. He sits and waits as she gathers what she needs.

Sadie turns toward him with a pair of scissors. “I’m gonna need to trim this all down before I can get to shaving anything.”

“‘Course.” Arthur clears his throat as she gets up into his space. It’s not perfect with her hovering over him like this, she’s not short but kneeling she’d be too short to reach. He can see the hunch of her back over the time it’d take to do the job would take a toll.

She hunches, considering the mess on his face, and he works up the courage to make a bold request. Inappropriate as it surely is but it’s not like he has the physical energy or the mental will to make a move like that.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Arthur suggests. She gives him a look like he’s a damn fool - he is - and stares at the hard ground.

“How’s that ’spose to help?” Sadie furrows her eyebrows and goes on with her planning.

“I meant,” Arthur gestures to his legs. “To make things easier on you, I’m not getting fresh. I swear it.”

There’s hesitation in her movement and Arthur opens his mouth to apologize. She shushes him before he gets a chance to open his mouth and sits down on his lap.

“You won’t even call me by anything but my married name,” Sadie settles, clearly more comfortable. “I know you ain’t looking for a feel.”

The next five minutes are spent in silence, Arthur closing his eyes and letting her whittle down the mess he’s let become of him. Every once and again the gentle roughness of her hands brushes against his cheek and he contains the sighs of content.

She stands up and he opens his eyes to see her come back over to his lap with shaving soap, his straight razor, and a cloth.

“How close you want it?” Sadie asks, gently lathering the soap up on his face.

“Close as you can get,” Arthur closes his eyes once more and lets her take care of him.

Sadie’s more gentle than a man like him deserves. He can tell from the little hums and sighs she makes as works that she’s practiced. Must have done this for her husband more often than not. It feels too close yet it feels like something earned between them.

He feels like the cool air brush across his bare face and with a pat on the cheek she’s off his lap. In a moment, she’s got the scissors back in her hands.

“Sorry, ‘fraid I can’t cut hair from your lap,” That teasing twang is back and it brings a wry smile to Arthur’s face.

“Shame,” He jokes back, testing the limits of his comfort.

Sadie gives him a chiding slap to the forehead and tells him to sit at the foot of the bed so she can get somewhat behind him.

“Like it was when you met me that night,” Arthur heads off her question. 

Sadie gives him a knowing look. “Cutting hair wasn’t exactly my thing but can’t be worse than what you’ve let grow.”

Arthur feels damn near close to purring at the feeling of her moving fingers through his hair. In a moment, he understands the house cat and if there is another life he would be happy to come back as one.

Even if there were he’s much more likely to come back as a snake but a man can dream.

He knows she’s finished because steps away and pats him on the head with just as much affection. If he had more time... that thought can’t be a thought.

Well, that seems to be how it goes.

She walks off without a word and Arthur might be imagining the glassiness of her eyes. Might not.

He gets up and gives himself a long look in the mirror. He’s still as ugly a cuss as ever existed but at least he’s got his dignity.

That’s all a man can ask to go with.

*

His feeling weren’t so much of a feeling as a reality.

He blinks and the train job’s gone wrong. Another blink and Abigail’s gone. Blink again he’s got her back with Sadie, because who else would go guns blazing with a dying man into a death trap.

Arthur won’t ever know his life was worth something and for his money he don’t think he was.

Abigail’s lifted on the back of Sadie’s horse and going to be safe with Jack and at least they’ll be able to have the kind of life he couldn’t give to Eliza and Isaac.

He doesn’t need religion to know this is it. He chokes up but for the first time in a while it ain’t because of the TB.

Arthur looks to Abigail as good a woman as he’s known in this life and is glad he never cursed her with marrying him. John might be dead but seeing Arthur waste away would have been an even worse curse.

And Sadie.

He can’t ever find the words.

“You’re good women,” Arthur shifts his weight back and forth, he can’t give them tears. He has to be strong. “Good people,” He sniffs and knows he can’t hang around. “The best.”

Whatever else he says is in a haze. He mounts his horse and watches them to the tree line and out of his sight. He runs a hand over the stubble on his chin and puts on his old hat.

Arthur spurs his horse into a gallop and rides off.

He can’t change the man he was but he’s decided the man he wants to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Play that cowboy game they said, it'll be fun they said. Explain the tears then, Rockstar.


End file.
